


Speak to Me

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Character, Dwarf Courting, First Kiss, Flowers, Fluff, Hobbit Courting, Language of Flowers, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers for Desolation of Smaug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bifur and Oin fall in love in three languages: Khuzdul, Iglishmek, and most of all, flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak to Me

**Author's Note:**

> I got most of the meanings for these flowers from [this site](http://www.languageofflowers.com/flowermeaning.htm), except for chrysanthemums, for which I combined two of the meanings. However, the time and place in which these various flowers can bloom is totally and completely made up. If Beorn can have enormous bees, he can have magic gardens, too
> 
> Also these two are really fricking cute, you guys.

Bifur loves flowers. Some think it’s quite silly of him—practically Elvish—but what’s not to love, really? They taste good, smell good, look good. Yes, he likes them very much, and so every once in a while he wanders off the road a bit to look for them. It’s not as though he’ll slow anyone down by walking a few feet to the left, and he counts on his cousins to call him if he gets too far. He even thinks, privately, that it might do Thorin Oakenshield himself good to look for flowers on his hikes a bit more.

One day he walks right into a lovely patch of red flowers that he doesn’t recognize, but there are so many and they look so cheery that he swoops down and gathers an armful as he walks. They’ll take up space in his pack, and probably die soon since he has no way to water them, but perhaps they’re edible. He’ll ask Oin, he thinks; apothecaries ought to know about plants. He stuffs them in his bag happily and rejoins the group.

\---

That night, he opens his bag to find a pile of flowers and, for the life of him, can’t remember what he meant to do with them. _Oin_ , his mind supplies helpfully. That’s right, they’re for Oin. He looks over at the Dwarf, starting a fire with his brother, and thinks that the blossoms would look very fine indeed against his graying hair. Nimbly, Bifur begins to weave the flowers into a crown.

He loves this kind of work. It can be fiddly, especially compared to the metal and wood he usually works with, and his fingers get good practice for the tricky carvings and moving parts of the toys that, in his opinion, are the most fun to make. Halfway through he remembers that he meant to _ask_ Oin about the flowers, not give them to him. A muttered curse escapes his lips, but his fingers don’t stop moving. It will look nice, anyway, and hopefully there will be extra.

Bifur is quite pleased with himself when he finishes, and he triumphantly marches over to the fire, which is now burning strongly. Bombur and Bilbo are starting dinner, Oin and Gloin smoking, and they all look up and greet him.

“What’ve you got there, Bifur?” Oin asks, and Bifur holds out the crown. He sees Bombur look at the flowers and then at him, surprise, but he mostly focuses on the happiness that spreads quickly over Oin’s face. “Why, those are _mums!_ Damned useful, you know—I make a tea, when I can get ’em, which isn’t often. They don’t grow too well by Ered Luin. Can you show me where you got them?”

Bifur shakes his head and signs _too far away_. He’s been trying lately to use Khuzdul less around Bilbo, which is irritating when his dialect of Iglishmek doesn’t match up with the others’, but Oin understands him well enough this time. He sits back, looking disappointed, and Bifur steps forward and shakes the crown again, holding it out with both hands. It’s a pity that the Dwarf intends to tear it apart, but he’d rather he have it, just the same.

Oin’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he accepts the flowers and clasps Bifur’s forearm in thanks.

 _Do they need to be cooked?_ Bifur asks.

“Nay—I wouldn’t eat them raw, myself, but it won’t kill you.”

Bifur thanks him and sits down. He munches on an extra flower as he waits for dinner, and finds it quite good. He’s glad he found them.

\---

The next morning, he has his mums for a walking snack. He ends up next to Bilbo at one point, and he remembers the hobbit’s look from the night before, so he holds a flower out to see if he wants to share. To his surprise, Bilbo turns as red as the petals.

“Oh! Er, no, no thank you. Very kind of you, I’m sure, but I don’t quite—I really couldn’t… it wouldn’t be proper of me.” There was an awkward pause. “You have no idea what I mean, do you?”

Bifur stares at him for a moment, nonplussed, because if Bilbo hasn’t realized that he understands Westron by now, then he’s not nearly as clever as Gandalf is making him out to be. Although it’s true that the hobbit isn’t making much sense right now, and he seems to realize it. He mutters “botheration” as though that’s a curse, sighs, and starts over.

“I don’t imagine Dwarves have many gardens, is all, and hobbits _do_ , and we have a certain language for flowers. Red chrysanthemums—well, they’re a very common courting bouquet,” he says finally. His cheeks are still flaming. “And it would be very, very strange for me to accept them from you. A day after you gave some to Oin, no less!” he adds with a hint of a grin.

Bifur laughs boisterously, and Bilbo smiles wider.

 _What do they mean?_ the Dwarf asks in Iglishmek—and then he repeats it again, shaking one of the flowers, when Bilbo looks puzzled.

“They represent ‘cheerful love,’ if that’s what you’re asking. Very popular with hobbits. We’re a cheerful lot, you know.”

Bifur sits with Oin and Gloin that night, and his cousins settle around him, and he smiles, at ease as conversation flows around them in Khuzdul and Iglishmek. Oin presses and dries chrysanthemum petals with a smile.

\---

No one is very cheerful only a few days later, when they are taken to Goblintown. The shrieks and the howling and the clashing of crude iron is too much and Bifur has to cover his ears. He can’t shut out Azanulbizar, but then they’re fighting and his instincts are razor-sharp and ready. He forgets himself in the battle, gives himself up to the instinct, and comes to when they are running from the mountains and Oin is beside him. The Dwarf runs steadily, but he is hampered by the staff tucked under his arm, and one hand shoved down his pocket. After a moment of rummaging, he pulls out a crushed mum and holds it out to Bifur.

“Calms the nerves,” he puffs. “Eases headaches. That’s in tea, don’t know how it’ll do plain, but you might as well try.”

He hadn’t expected anyone to notice, Bifur thinks—and if they did, he thought they would keep it quiet, because no one ever likes to mention the uncomfortable things. He can’t stop, can’t thank Oin properly, but he accepts the flower and says “Dolzekh menu” in a low, sincere voice.

“You all right, lad?” Oin murmurs.

Bifur stuffs the flower in his mouth and signs _well enough_ , and they keep running.

\---

By the time he wakes up in Beorn’s house, he has decided. He doesn’t know if Oin is his One—frankly, he doesn’t care. The night, as the company had sung old travelling songs with full stomachs in before a roaring fire, he had watched and seen contentment and cheer on Oin’s face for the first time in many long days, and he had felt an answering warmth in his own heart. Oin is not one given to effusiveness, but he is more easy-going than he lets on, and Bifur suspects that there is much he keeps hidden. It will be enough to court him for just a little while, and make him happy if he can.

So he wakes, and eats, and walks among Beorn’s garden as he waits for Bilbo to do the same. As soon as he is done, he drags the Hobbit outside, much to the bemusement of their companions.

“What is all this about?” Bilbo asks, and Bifur points at the branch of a low-hanging tree, which bears thin white blossoms that smell wonderfully sweet. “Honeysuckle, wild honeysuckle.”

 _What does it mean?_ he asks in iglishmek. This time Bilbo recognizes it, and his face brightens.

“Flower language, you’re asking about? Yes? Honeysuckle represents inconsistency.”

That won’t do. He moves on to another flower, this one a lovely stalk of pale purple buds. Lilac, he thinks, and is pleased when Bilbo confirms it.

“First emotions of love,” he says.

Bifur nods to himself and cuts off two stalks. He wouldn’t, normally, but there were three vases of fresh flowers on the breakfast table this morning, so he hopes that his host won’t mind. Enormous bumblebees hum serenely as they fly past him and Bilbo, and he thinks they’ll be okay. He sets the flowers gently down on the grass, and Bilbo looks at them for a moment, and then beams up at Bifur.

“Oin?” he asks, and then claps delightedly when Bifur nods. “ _Excellent_! Finally, something on this wretched adventure I know I can do properly—not that I’m married myself, but I’ll have you know that I was only in my tweens when I helped my uncle Bingo catch the eye of Chica Chubb, and not an easy thing it was, the Chubbs being as stubborn as they are, and my cousin Posco married Gilly Brownlock just last Thrimidge and they have _me_ to thank for it. Posco gave me his best biscuit recipe on the wedding day, and very fine it is. You can ask Dwalin, because he ate all of them.”

Bifur blinks rather confusedly, hardly able to make heads or tails of this strange little speech. Very Hobbitish. But judging by the enthusiasm, he’s plenty willing to offer his assistance, and that’s the important part.

They move on to inspect the flower beds. Bilbo knows almost all of them. Many of them are appropriate for lovers but don’t, somehow, seem appropriate for Oin—or else they don’t match the lilac. At first Bifur doesn’t mind, because Oin barely noticed that the mums were in a crown, so he doesn’t think that presentation will matter. Bilbo insists, and after a while it just becomes part of the game, finding flowers that say the right things and look the right way.

He ends up with only three flowers. The first is the lilac, of course. The second is jonquil, which has thick white petals and a round yellow sun at its heart. It’s so pretty that he takes a cutting before Bilbo even tells him what it means, so he’s grateful that it says _I desire a return of affection_. Simple, not demanding.  The final blossom he picks is fennel, which looks like yellow fireworks and mean _strength_ and _worthy of all praise_. That one, he thinks, is good because if Oin’s made the decision to remain unmarried this long then he will probably appreciate a compliment on his craft.

“A very pretty bouquet,” Bilbo says approvingly.

Bifur strokes the leaves of the jonquil as his heart flutters.

\---

Later that afternoon, Oin goes off into a separate corner of the house to work. Bifur wonders briefly if he should give him some time, but he is already walking up to him before he can consider it too carefully. Oin looks up at his steps, exasperation in his face—but it clears when he sees who it is.

“Ah, only you—thought it might be the boys come to bother me again. I’ve only got one good ear left and they’re determined to talk it off. Worse than Gloin’s lad, both of ’em!”

“I can go, if it’s privacy you seek,” Bifur offers in Khuzdul, but Oin is already shaking his head.

“No, Bifur, o’ course not. Have a seat if you like. _You_ don’t blather on like the boys or, bless him, that cousin o’ yours. I don’t need perfect silence, only peace. Hard thing to come by on this little trip.”

He can’t stand waiting anymore. He holds up the flowers, which had been hanging idly by his side, and nearly presses them against Oin’s chest. The Dwarf is surprised, definitely, but an instinctive smile brightens his face when he sees the colors. He reaches out to touch the lilac.

“Lilac, isn’t it? Good for burns. And this…” His hand drifts to the fennel and he pauses, thinking. “Don’t recall the name—I know some use it to cook with. Your cousin would know.” He looks at the jonquils for a moment and then up at Bifur, worried. “You didn’t eat any of these, did you?”

Bifur shakes his head.

“Good. They’re poisonous. Won’t kill you, but it’s not pleasant. _Fennel_!” he says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “These yellow ones, I remember now. _Fennel_. Bombur might appreciate some.”

His fingers begin to pick out the yellow fireworks, but Bifur reaches out and stops him.

“They’re not for Bombur,” he says simply. “They’re for you. If you like them.”

Oin looks at the flowers for a long time, curiosity on his face. Dwarves don’t usually give growing things as courting gifts, but some of the men that live near the Blue Mountains do, and Bifur can almost _see_ the moment that Oin remembers that. He looks up at Bifur, their gazes locking for half a moment, and back down at the bouquet. There is—and Bifur is shocked and amused to see it—a faint pink blush on his cheeks. His fingers rest on the petals.

“I rather think I do,” he says gruffly. “Pity I don’t have a proper place t’ keep ’em. They’re very fine, Bifur, very fine.”

He sets the flowers on his pack and pats the seat beside him. Bifur joins him quite eagerly, and before he even stops to think if it’s a good idea, he leans against Oin’s shoulder. It’s a comfortable position, and he settles in to do some chores of his own. The Great Goblin would make a marvelous toy, he thinks as he takes out his knife and a block of wood. Oin stiffens for just a moment. His hand lifts and hovers in the air... and then gently, fondly, pats Bifur’s knee.

They stay like that for most of the evening in comfortable companionship. Sometimes Oin hums a little, off-key, and sometimes Bifur signs about toymaking—either showing off or asking advice on the goblin piece. Oin chuckles, at one point, and thanks Bifur for giving him flowers instead of _that_ , and Bifur near shivers in delight and triumph. Some kind of toy ought to have been his courting gift. He’s glad that Oin recognizes that the flowers had taken their place.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, other Dwarves pass by them. Once, Bombur walks by. He stops and looks at Bifur, his eyes wide. Bifur winks a little, and the widest, most delighted grin spreads over his cousin’s face.

\---

“Why’d you give these to me, really?”

“You notice things that most don’t. And appreciate them. How many Dwarves are so happy to see mums?”

“They’re useful.”

“Lovely, too.”

“Aye.”

“The Hobbits have a language for flowers, you know.”

“Do they now? Iglishmek and flowers—two tongues I can always hear. Will you teach it to me?”

“All I can.”

\---

They are riding away on their borrowed ponies when Bifur’s sense of mischief rears its head. He leans over and nimbly cuts off one flower—a bright, reddish purple cattleya orchid that didn’t match the bouquet from the night before. Bilbo laughs behind his hand as he gives it to Oin, and the other Dwarf’s eyebrows rise.

“What’s this one mean, then?”

Bifur had taught Oin the meanings of fennel, lilac, and jonquil the night before, and the Dwarf had hugged him tightly and planted a solid kiss on his cheek. The memory makes his fingers tingle when he thinks of it, but he smiles to himself and urges his pony to ride a little further ahead as Bilbo, biting back a giggle, answers “Mature charms.”

Gloin roars with laughter and thumps his brother on the back.

“All those poor Dwarves you turned down in our youth—and that’s what that gets you!  Ha!”

“You’ll pay for that one, you cheeky bastard!” Oin calls, but when Bifur looks over his shoulder, he sees the Dwarf carefully slipping the bloom into his pocket.

\---

In Laketown, they are separated.

“My place is with the wounded,” Oin says, and Bifur agrees with the logic of that but his heart likes it not. In the mountain there is a Dragon and in Laketown there might be enemies, and he is loath to leave his One. (When did he become so sure, he wonders? In the dungeons of Mirkwood, perhaps, when he had peered anxiously through the bars of his cell and, across the way, seen a flash of magenta petals in the dim light?)

But at the same time he knows that they cannot _all_ remain, and someone must take care of Bombur—the young cousin he had always looked after, with a dozen young ones of his own besides. Yes, Bifur has to stay with the company for Bombur, and because he promised Bofur, and he thinks that Oin will respect that.

Still, he can’t leave it at that. He steps up on the rail of the boat—he wobbles and a few pairs of hands reach up to steady him—and yanks Oin down for a kiss.

It’s a brisk kiss, and whiskery, and his nose is filled with the scent of the rose oil that Oin used to clean his beard. The other Dwarf rushes out to steady him by the shoulders and kisses back, tilting his head carefully so his forehead doesn’t collide with Bifur’s axe. He pulls away too soon.

“Best be movin’ on now, love,” he mumbles. “You’ve got a dragon to slay. And be careful about it, won’t you?”

He tugs one of Bifur’s braids, and Bifur nods. Then no less than Thorin Oakenshield himself pulls him down into the boat again—oh, and Bifur’s missed something important, because both the king  and the crown prince (still standing on the pier) look ready to bellow down a mountain—and they’re off. As the boat sails away towards the Lonely Mountain, Bifur fixes his eye on the Dwarf standing at the docks and thinks that this really has been a marvelous adventure.


End file.
